


A Life with You

by TalentedLoser



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:46:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Lockbell drabbles, ranging from angst to fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Nights

**Author's Note:**

> So for these drabbles, they are based on song lyrics. The song is played, and for the duration of the song, I must write a fic. Once the song stops, I have to stop. Very fast paced, and pretty great.

_But I still wake up, I still see your ghost,_  
_Oh lord I'm still not sure what I stand for._  
**"Some Nights" - F.U.N.**

* * *

 

He had received a late night call some time ago. How long had it been? A month? A few? Time seemed to blur, but the last time he checked on the calendar, the funeral was a week prior.

_“It’s about Sherlock, Marcus.”_

He was given administrative leave for the loss. It hit the department harder than he expected—hell, it hit him harder than he expected. He refused, at first, to take the leave. He figured he could bury himself in desk work and it’d be okay. But after some time (was it a half hour?) he would glance near the entrance and expect a man to come bouncing in, either with coffee or muffins, talking about the case they were on. And every time he was stuck on a detail in a case, he wanted to call Sherlock. But every time he forgot, he would get the same message: the phone was out of service.

_“He—Marcus, he’s not—he’s gone.”_

He didn’t sleep well. If he did, he would have a dream about Sherlock falling, and him unable to catch the falling man. It was unpleasant. Some nights, he stared at the other side of the bed. He remembered the tattoos, the way Sherlock’s back curved into the bed when he was comfortable. And when he himself was comfortable next to the man, he would sigh and close his eyes, content with his surroundings, content with the sleeping man next to him, wherever he was.

_“I—Are you okay?”_

He stared at the red lights blinking at him, the alarm blaring. He’d never see the man again. He’d never see the bouncing, rambunctious, annoying, condescending, lively, childish, prudish, insatiable man again. He turned over and listened to the alarm continue to chime. The cold side of the bed was staring back at him. He was there, he knew it, but when he reached out, nothing reached back. So started a mantra:

_“He’s gone.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight continuation of my other fanfiction, "Crashing."


	2. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was hurt, again. It was all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was merely "I'm Sorry" kiss. I might do more of these. 
> 
> For now, enjoy. If you want a prompt done, I'm on tumblr at themadkingreigns.

He was hurt, again.

( _“Marcus!”_ )

It was his fault.

( _“Get down!”_ )

He couldn't get up fast enough from the ground to reach the detective, couldn't shake the ringing from his ears when the blast subsided, couldn't help but fall to the ground once or twice (twice) because of the wounds on his legs and arms agonizing him, couldn't—

He just couldn't.

( _"Marcus!"_ )

That time, Sherlock made sure to visit.

It was not much of a trek to the room, since he, too, had to be examined by the doctors.

( _“Trust me, I would know if I had any form of hearing loss, doctor. I would not be in such a mood by your incessant voice. These burns are merely scars which will form. Please leave me with my other doctor."_ )

Marcus remained unconscious on the bed, the beeping from the machine monotonous.

Sherlock sat next to him, back to Marcus’s face that held Sherlock’s guilt, back to the machines that blamed him for everything.

Each beep reminded Sherlock of his fault.

_Beep, beep, beep…_

Every once in a while, Sherlock looked back at the machine to keep an eye on his vitals, make sure nothing changed for the worst, and nothing had.

Still, it was his fault.

( _“Stay with me.”_ )

All his fault.

( _“Somebody help!”_ )

If he had not egged the perpetrator on, if he had not pushed the suspect one too many, if he had just warned Marcus of staying outside of the warehouse—

( _“Sherlock, this isn’t up for debate. Let’s just get this guy, alright?”_ )

So there Marcus rested, burns barely covering his arms, but still there, still wrapped in bandages that were stained by blood, by scabbing, by tissue, by his doing. Still they were scars that would remain, remain out in the open, telling the rest of the world: “Sherlock Holmes is the one to blame.”

The doctors told the rest it was merely head trauma, and he was expected to survive.

( _“You were lucky to be far enough away from the blast zone. It could have been a lot worse.”_ )

But Sherlock could not let his eyes venture away from the bandages wrapped around Marcus’ head when they stood outside the room with the doctors earlier. There was a faint spot of blood soaking from the bandage, and his face was bruised and battered, and then there were his arms, his arms, his arms, his—

He blinked.

The beeping remained a constant.

Sherlock stayed staring at Marcus’s hand in front of him.

How long had he been there, merely staring at his hand? Or, for that matter, how long had he been holding Marcus’s hand?

But he observed. There were specks of dirt under his nails, scratches at the knuckles, other scratches on the back of the hand and possibly the palm—God, how far back was Marcus thrown back? Where had Sherlock even landed? It was a miracle to even find the detective in the smoke, to find him still in one piece.

For that, he was grateful.

The detective would not be too affected. He would still be the best detective in the precinct, and he would still be able to work.

But it was still his fault.

And for that, he felt ashamed.

But the question remained: how long had he been holding Marcus’s hand? Since they left the burning warehouse for the hospital?

( _“Sir, you have to move. His vitals are dropping."_ )  


But he sat there, hands connected, hands which were maybe never meant to be connected in the first place, after all Sherlock had done to the detective.

( _“Seriously? I can’t hold your hand?”_

_“I am not ready for something as intimate and physical.”_

_“Okay.”_ )

He wished to express his apology. If it weren’t for him, Marcus would not be in the hospital again. If he were not linked to the consulting detective, Marcus would be a rising detective in the precinct (it was why everyone else was “Not Bell” of course). If Sherlock did not—if he—

He bent Marcus’s elbow, the limp arm easily brought up in the air toward Sherlock. He slightly turned his head to look over at Marcus, to see him still unconscious, still bruised and battered, still hurt. Somehow, the grip on Marcus’s hand tightened, and Sherlock turned back to close his eyes.

Was he saying a prayer? What was he thinking?

Even he did not know.

But his way of expressing an apology was through touch, through some form of touch, that perhaps would connect to the unconscious detective resting mere feet from him.

It was the first time both held hands. Perhaps it would be the only time; Sherlock was not one to foresee the future. And only one would remember such a memory.

But holding his hand comforted Sherlock.

It meant Marcus was alive.

He was still breathing.

His heart was still functioning.

Blood still pumped throughout his body.

And if Sherlock’s lips grazed the back of Marcus’ hand, if for some reason that would get through to Marcus, if the unspoken apology would get the detective to forgive him, to forget such an incident, to somehow move on from it to stay with the consulting one—then Sherlock would not confirm nor deny such a thing.

The first kiss both would share, and it was through guilt one held, and would hold for a long time.

And eyes on Sherlock would understand; they would show relief.

( _He did not remember how one minute he was standing, and the next he was on the ground in agony. Something went wrong. Didn't matter, he thought. His arms burned. His face was hot. It was hard to breathe. He could hear someone yelling for him. Sherlock. He opened his eyes for a moment to see smoke surround, fire grow, and a man fall next to him. He looked up at him; he hardly had a scratch on him. That was good, he thought. There was more yelling, something about help, something—he didn't know. He just grabbed the man's hand without fear of a consequence. The man did not seem to care, for his attention was more toward something in the distance—more fire? Or people? Whatever it was, it did not get the man to look at their hands for a moment. He just coughed, although it was really meant to be a laugh. He kept his eyes closed._

_He hoped he was gripping the man's hand as hard has he could when he spoke. The man would not hear him; his voice was too faint to overcome the crackling of the fire. Still, he spoke, before everything went cold:_

_“I am glad you are okay.”_ )


	3. Finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes meant finality.

He was never good at goodbyes. Goodbyes meant finality. 

Of course, Sherlock strove for finality. Give him a case and he would put his finishing touches on the case until the suspect could not be presumed guilty in a court of law because they were always guilty. Give him a task and he would complete the task in a matter of time. Maybe time would not be on his side, necessarily, but eventually he could have a complete piece of art on someone’s doorstep at two in the morning. Or maybe he would have a written memo detailing how some suspect is not the suspect because he finally read all those documents six weeks after the case. One project—

No, he thought; time would not be on his side. 

Joan and Sherlock stood in the back. They were surrounded by black (some were in blue), and dismay. Sherlock could hear the stories from some, and he could sense the dreadful silence that was meant to be filled. The two noticed a line toward the front, where the detective was, and determined to get to the front as soon as possible. It was not long, but it would take some time. Time, Sherlock thought, was what killed him. 

And so they stood, and stood, and stood. Slowly they made their way. Slowly they inched toward the front. And, slowly, the dismay grew. 

Then the crowd cleared. 

There he was: Detective Marcus Bell. Sherlock could feel the fire burn in his heart for him, this unquestionable sense of happiness burst. Joan turned around to him and asked him a question. He only hummed; he had no idea what she said. They kept marching. Sherlock seemingly went on auto-pilot, as he did not know how they moved. He did not notice the people around him sit down, programs in hand, and their families whisper about the whole thing. The people around wondered why they were there—what was going on?

But he blinked, and somehow, they were right there. 

Joan was first. She said something to the detective, something unspeakable. Sherlock could only hear the ringing in his ears as his heart continued to beat, continued to rap against his chest as though it would leap at any moment. He watched as Joan put a hand on the detective’s shoulder, reassurance toward something. She breathed in, whispered something else, and her hand was gone. She looked over at Sherlock, just for a brief moment in time, and then turned away. 

She left him alone. 

He stepped forward. Sherlock looked at the one and only Detective Marcus Bell. The detective looked handsome, great—alive. He knew if he would touch Marcus’ hand, which he did, he would notice how stiff it was, which it was. He could swear it was warm. He heard the people behind him murmur, and he heard the others surrounding him shuffle their feet against the carpet. Joan was behind him; he felt her hand on his back. He could finally feel himself break under the pressure of it all, and he could feel the turmoil of everything trickle from his eyes. Everything came back—from their first meeting, to their many arguments and make-ups, to their first and many dates, to their final meeting. 

Sherlock could still hear the last breath he gave. It filled the silence that rang in his ears every day. He leaned down, closed his eyes, and quickly kissed the top of the detective’s forehead.

“Goodbye, Marcus,” Sherlock whispered. 

He wondered if it were all a dream. Of course, it was not. He opened his eyes, still holding Marcus’ hand, still seeing him lying there, and the rest moving. Time continued for Sherlock and others; it was gone for Marcus. 

He only hoped his goodbye was good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while since I've written something. The prompt was "goodbye." Send prompts to themadkingreigns on tumblr.


End file.
